


Radio Star

by sugarboat



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Cecil gets molested during a broadcast, Dubious Consent, Enthusiastic dubious consent, Light Bondage, Masturbation, Other, Public indecency, Tentacle Sex, Voice Kink, mild exhibitionism, voyeurism-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-19 00:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: It's Listener Appreciation Week at Night Vale Community Radio - a historically perilous time for broadcasters. Particularly so when fans aren't careful with their postage.Now included: a certain listener shows his appreciation.





	1. Chapter 1

The door to management’s office creaked open. Thick, dark smoke rolled out, spilling across the station’s floor and obscuring the well-worn tiles. Cecil eyed this event carefully, but the bright “ON AIR” sign was due to flicker to life at any moment, and the imminence of death becoming ever so slightly more imminent was no reason to shirk one’s responsibilities. 

And one, single Door opening was no reason to panic.

From his viewpoint in the glass recording booth, it didn’t _look_ like the paint had begun to peel in slender crackling curls off the walls, so, that was a good sign. Maybe a freak breeze had blown the door open, and this had nothing to do with management at all! After all, one of the interns had been doing building maintenance this week, which had mostly consisted of the poor young man oiling every door hinge, every desk drawer (did those need oiled? Cecil, and he assumed, the world, did not know), and all the ominous, ever-turning gears within reach. Of course, this did not fall inside the regular scope of practice for interns, but ever since poor Terrence, the intern, had fallen into the oil pit that had appeared on the lawn of Marcus Vanston’s private mid-week getaway house his upper extremities had been replaced by dark, indistinct limbs consisting of constantly dripping, slippery ooze. Great for lubricating doorways, not-so-great for working with expensive radio equipment or handling anything paper. 

So, yes. That was probably it. Most likely. The Door, previously rusted shut with a long dried, brown and flakey liquid, had just undergone too much upkeep recently, and, being unused to such things as responsible homeownership, had simply slid open on its own. Without the knowledge or consent of the beings who resided beyond its stone carved form. Assuming that the smoke – which still continued to flood the hallway, having reached knee height and now accumulating upwards towards the ceiling – was not corrosive or poisonous in some unforeseeable manner, an intern was probably already on their way to just, gently tip that door shut again. Cecil was halfway to convincing himself that this was the case when the “ON AIR” sign buzzed on, casting a dull yellow sheen across the bubbling surface of the smoke.

“When one door closes, another door, somewhere in your house, opens – and who _knows_ what’s lurking behind that one,” Cecil said, slipping into his role as the Voice of Night Vale with the ease of a parasite slipping into a second skin. Really, it was his first and only skin, as he never could truly _stop_ being the Voice. “Welcome, to Night Vale.”

The instrumental opening was coming to a close when the light hanging nearest to management’s office began flickering. Cecil watched it flash on and off with suspicion and growing mistrust, but that was how he watched most things. 

“It is Listener Appreciation Week here at Night Vale Community Radio and I, for one, could not be more pleased!” The flickering grew more intense, both in frequency and in number of light bulbs flashing. The entire hallway was having an epileptic fit, but the obscuring smoke was, actually, quite helpful in this situation. “We’ve been fielding listener suggestions and tips left, right, and double left all week and, frankly, most of them were _awful_! _You_ should have put more thought into this. And that last one? Pretty embarrassing stuff! I can’t _believe_ you thought _that_ would be a good idea!

“Also, I would hate to start something like a city-wide manhunt, but _one_ of you out there has been using _writing utensils_. I’m not going to name any names, but I think it suffice to say that it is someone you know and love, very much. The very last person you would expect to _betray_ you, the one person you believe that, in this life, you can trust the _most_. A person that knows your deepest, most intimate and _incriminating_ secrets. If this person is capable of so blatantly violating bans are that in place solely for our protection, why, dear Listeners, I think that begs the question… what _else_ is this person capable of?

“Now, I know better than most how inconvenient some of these bans from City Council have been. Just the other day, I was talking to Carlos - _perfect_ Carlos - our resident scientist whose hair, I must say, is growing back _quite_ nicely.” Cecil was looping a dangling wire around his index finger as he spoke, completely absorbed in his memories of said scientist and also completely missing the way the bulbs in the hallway had begun to crack and explode. “I mean, it’s kind of at that in-between stage, where you _know_ someone has gotten a haircut, and it’s _sort of_ growing out, but you can tell they don’t really know how to style it yet – Listeners, I’m not usually one for the scruffy, unkempt look, but Carlos the scientist _wears it well_!”

A tentacle darted through the dense, roiling darkness of the hallway and slapped against the glass of the recording booth. The spider web of hairline cracks that splintered out from its impact site formed the words **GET TO THE POINT**. Cecil cleared his throat.

“Anyway, I was talking to Carlos and he mentioned how much easier things would be if most forms of standard writing utensils weren’t banned. I said, _uh huuuuhh_ , and he said that while most mundane charting and frantic, terrified note taking could be replicated with a tablet, it just wasn’t the same. There was something intrinsically _missing_ from the process that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Touch screens and styluses weren’t banned, he continued, so it isn’t _so_ different from using a pen and paper, but…

“And then, he trailed off, offering only a shrug and a very non-committal hand wave.” Beneath his desk, something snaked itself around Cecil’s ankle and he flinched bodily. “I-I nodded, and told him that we all lose something small and intrinsic to ourselves every day, usually without acknowledging or even so much as noticing this loss, until we have lost _so_ much that we find ourselves hollow and aching inside, with no idea as to what we are aching for, so, I was happy he was cognizant of his own forfeitures.” The something around his ankle had become the something around his leg, coiling upwards around his pant leg. “Listeners, if perfect Carlos, with all his sciencing and postulating – if _he_ can avoid the use of writing utensils, well, so can you!” 

Thin streamers of jet black smoke were trickling in through the cracks in the glass, and were curling upwards into the room from crack between the floor and the bottom of the door. Cecil thought about taking his shirt off and stuffing it beneath the door, but both of his legs were now ensnared by something that he wasn’t quite ready to check out just yet. Oftentimes, Cecil had found, the solution to an issue was simply ignoring the existence of said issue entirely. Denial was an essential skill to cultivate in Night Vale.

“In other news, nothing at all _strange_ or _unexpected_ or kind of _wet_ and _slimy_ – nothing like that _at all_ is happening currently in the station.” Perhaps in response to his talking about them, or perhaps in an unrelated and coincidental manner, the twin tendrils coiled around his legs tightened dramatically. “N-Noooope. Nothing like that at all.”

The things around him were cold and damp, soaking through the fabric of his slacks where they twitched and pulsed against him. They had wound high enough to clench around his thighs, their tips flicking at the upper curve of his hipbones. Cecil still wasn’t sure how they had managed to squirm between his legs and the seat. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, but it wasn’t _un_ comfortable, and his skin felt kind of prickly and warm where the tentacles’ viscous fluid was seeping into his clothes. In fact, his whole body was feeling kind of prickly and warm.

“In actual news, Old Woman Josie reports that the inhumanly tall, winged creatures who are definitely _not_ angels, and who all go by the name _Erika_ , have been having some, uh-” More tendrils blossomed from, somewhere, and wound around his arms. Up close, the liquid they were coated in smelled sickly sweet, like road kill left to bake in the afternoon sun. Oh, and cotton candy! One of the tentacles trailed across his cheek, leaving a sticky smear behind. He felt heat rush to his face, and his brain felt foggy. “Sooooome _issues_ with the water heater. She didn’t expand, or tell us _why_ she thought this was news worthy, but, there you go!”

Cecil gulped, and hoped that didn’t count as unapproved sponsorship. With a touch more force than was strictly necessary, Cecil loosened his tie and collar. It was _so. Hot._ In this booth. Was it the booth? Was it always this hot? Was it the biting and acrid smoke that was now starting to build up inside it? 

“Personally, I don’t see why she _needs_ hot water,” Cecil said. His voice was trembling. “Why do _any_ of us need hot water? We are in a desert, Night Vale!” When – and how – had he lost his shirt? Tendrils were sliding up and down his arms, so slick and cool in sharp contrast to his overheating flesh. He sucked in a shaky breath as two more tentacles began groping up his chest, circling around his waist and cinching tight. The thin, tapered end of one slinked around his throat. It squeezed ever so lightly, just enough to make his already dizzy head swim, and Cecil let out a groan. “I mean, _hot water_ , right?” It came out deeper, a bit more derisive than he had truly intended.

His breathing had gotten a little faster, a little shallower, and he was squirming in his seat. He was burning alive, a raging fire pulsing through his arteries, in the delicate capillary tangles so close to the skin and in the thick vessels so deep inside him, a fuse struck from both ends. Each sweep of the tendrils over him brought him a scant moment of blessed relief, swiftly followed by even brighter sparks of heat, so that he was left gasping and striving for their constant touch. 

There was a dull, hollow thunking, and the end of the tentacle wrapped around his neck pressed up against his chin. Cecil blinked groggily but allowed it to tilt his head upwards. He licked his lips and wondered if there was some way to tempt the tendril closer. The thunking continued and Cecil focused on its source. The thin white cracks on the window of the recording booth had reformed themselves into the words **KEEP GOING**. He felt a bone tingling shiver roll down his spine in a heady wave. 

“Oh, _yes_ , do keep going.” All the tendrils – wrapped around his arms, his legs, his waist, his _neck_ \- clenched in warning. “With the, uh, news! Of course. The news.” The tentacles relaxed and Cecil felt a fresh surge of whatever strange, dripping liquid they were coated with rush across his skin. It soaked into the fabric of his slacks and probably the chair, and dripped off his bare skin to patter on the floor like the quiet whispering of rain. 

“The Sheriff’s Secret Police issued a statement earlier today, concerning the _you-know-what_ , located, _you-know-where,_ in which they detailed that everything is… fine. Just, terrific, really, thanks for asking.” Every long, lingering stroke of the tendrils up or down his skin sent electrifying bolts through his body, pooling low and molten in his stomach. “When questioned further, they said oh, you know, things are just… totally normal. Nothing to see here.” His hips were twitching and he kept shifting his weight back and forth, searching for some kind of relief. It was taking all his concentration not to stutter his way through the report.

“And when pressed about the low, continuous buzzing coming from the _you-know-what_ and the mysterious and unidentified bones strewn about _you-know-where_ , they slid on their standard government-issued gas masks and released a container of tear gas on the gathered reporters. An officer, hovering overhead in a blue, unmarked helicopter and shouting through a megaphone, said everything. Is. _Under. Control_. Before dropping another canister of tear gas on the dispersing crowd.”

The idea of tear gas assaulting his senses should have been a nice, refreshing douse of arousal-dampening irritant, particularly since the black smoke was already drying out his eyes and making it difficult to take in any deep breaths. But the tendrils around his legs had other ideas, and their ends suddenly, deliciously slipped between his thighs, wriggling wetly against his clothed and straining erection. A reward for a job well done, he assumed. Cecil dug his teeth into his bottom lip, making a weird, almost pained noise low in throat. His hips jerked upwards, or tried to, but he was held firmly in place by the tendrils wound around the rest of him. A whine may or may not have escaped him.

“L-listeners, remember what I said earlier?” Cecil was squirming in his seat. “About the station? About how it was _definitely not_ the site of strange, or unexpected, o-or slick and, uh, _distracting_ events?” His back was arched as he strained forward, trying to press himself into the teasingly light touches while his limbs were solidly anchored in place. “Well, that was-” The rest of his sentence, which Cecil had planned to be something like ‘not quite accurate,’ was replaced by a muffled and unintelligible sound as the end of a tendril slithered into his mouth.

His first reaction, thanks to the preparedness lessons of his childhood in the boy scouts, was to shake his head and reel back, but there wasn’t far to go and the tendril wasn’t attached to anything corporeal enough to escape. The thick, clear fluid it was covered in was _disgusting_ on his tongue, and it spilled down his throat without him even needing to swallow. It seared all the way down his esophagus, hot and burning like ice in his stomach. It reminded Cecil of nights spent trying to forget, and he inanely wondered if he was going to remember any of _this_.

And at all once he relaxed. He pressed his tongue against the thick, intruding thing in his mouth. It felt like coated rubber, like some kind of dense and durable skin stretched taut overtop of delicate, blubbery insides. Made slimy and slippery by that, that liquid, that _secretion_ , that whatever-it-was! Which, now that he thought about it, didn’t actually taste bad at all. It was… good! It was… really good! Cecil’s cheeks hollowed out briefly as he sucked at the appendage, moaning appreciatively as a wave of that fluid was released in his mouth and he swallowed down as much as he could. The tentacle itself followed, slipping down the back of his throat effortlessly, until he could feel it from the inside, straining against the tight rings of his throat, stretching it obscenely and he would have reached up to stroke its bulge, pressing up and distending his skin, if only his hands and arms and limbs weren’t tied so thoroughly down. 

It withdrew in one smooth motion, leaving Cecil coughing and licking at his lips. Licking at the long, elastic string of saliva and mystery fluid that stretched between his lips and the tapered end of the tentacle. He tried, mindless, to follow, and thrashed against the loops pinning him down, groaning a wordless plea. That dull thunking came again, and he glanced up to the cracked glass. More words in thin, spidery, splintering print were there, but his vision was swimming. He focused instead on the void-black darkness that resided on the other side of the glass, pressing in like water on the sea floor, leaking into every crack and crevice, the glass – his only bulwark – on the verge of bowing and snapping. 

Cecil caught a glimpse of his own vague reflection in the darkened glass and shuddered unpleasantly. 

The tapping came again and this time Cecil could pull himself together enough to read the words. **THE NEWS** , it proclaimed, **THE NEWS**. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the way his blood sang at the rough scratch he felt in his esophagus. He twisted his body as much as he could in the tentacles’ wet and unyielding grip.

“Uhhh…” he said intelligently. “Where was I?” A voice – or many voices – or not a voice at all, whispered behind him ‘ _the station_.’ “Oh! Yes! The… station. Everything is great, here! Here, at the station. Yup.” He rolled his head back, leaning into the touch of a soaked, dripping tendril as it pet against his hair. Cecil shivered as he felt cool, viscous ooze dribble across his scalp. The fluid matted his hair and rolled in thick globules down his neck, down his cheek. The third eye flickered open, but it was pretty out of it too, when all was said and done.

“Oh! Heeeere’s something!” Every inch of him was drenched and dripping. Every. Inch. “It seems that Old Woman Josie’s water heater issue has caught the attention of everyone’s favorite scientist, Carlos! Isn’t that… something!” Cecil bit the inside of his cheek. Everything smelled like honey and blood and brimstone. Sweet and rotten and biting. “He’s heading over there right now, to do some sort of _science,_ I would imagine! And all without the use of _writing utensils, **Steve Carlsburg**_.”

Even with the added, distasteful thought of Steve Carlsburg on his mind, Cecil couldn’t help but to sigh wistfully. “Apparently, Old Woman Josie – or perhaps her tall friends, who are totally not angels, you guys – or perhaps just her faulty water heater, have become the subject of Carlos’ _scientific inquiry_.” His heart was already pounding at an alarming pace, but Cecil was mildly certain he felt it speed up even more so. “Can you even imagine? Being the subject of such _focused, intense_ scrutiny? Helping out both _science_ as an over-arching ideal, _and_ a beloved member of our small community?”

A different kind of heat blossomed in his stomach, thinking about Carlos. It was strange to say, and therefore Cecil didn’t say it out loud, but it felt less… synthetic than the fire that had all but consumed his body over the course of the show so far. His brain felt as though it was melting into a fine, still kind of gritty and poorly mixed slurry, and yet it managed to conjure images of Carlos looming over him in his crisp, white lab coat, a wild curiosity (and something else) smoldering in his dark eyes, his perfect hair slightly messed but still perfect, and what if these weren’t slippery, otherworldly tendrils wound about his limbs but some sort of _this_ -worldly restraint, used to keep track of unruly volunteer test subjects and-

“C-Citizens of Night Vale, this is _not_ an emergency, but I take you now to an emergency broadcast of [the weather](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhB6Lb7_kN8)!”

Cecil went to flip the small red switch on the soundboard that would kill the live feed from his mic before remembering that his arms were still bound motionless from shoulder to wrist. Well, less remembered and more jerked fitfully against his captor while letting out a choked off sob. The tentacles in their collective consciousness were thoughtful – one flared to life like a dark sunspot in the air near the soundboard and flicked the switch off for him. And then slightly less thoughtfully, as one they hoisted Cecil into the air and deposited him with a grunt and a heavy thud onto the cool tile floor. 

“Oh, _please_ ,” Cecil moaned. He twisted his wrists around to palm at the tendrils he could reach, and they in turn dragged his arms up over his head. They coiled tightly, drawing his arms close and tying together them from wrist to elbow. “Please, please, _please_.” 

He didn’t have the brainpower left to be ashamed of his general lack of verbal finesse. His focal point was rapidly narrowing to his poor, neglected cock that strained against the soaked fabric of his breeches (and less pleasurably, against the hard line of his zipper). His heels slipped against the slime covered tiles of the floor as he kicked in an attempt to gain some sort of leverage. The surface of his skin was so hot, or maybe it was whatever junk was underneath it that was so hot. Carlos would know.

A strangled cry was torn from him as clever and surprisingly dexterous tentacles wormed their way under the waistline of his pants. They might have undone the zipper as well, he wasn’t really sure, but when had he ever been sure about _anything?_ They yanked his slacks down all the same, leaving them tangled in a sodden pile somewhere around his knees and he moaned wantonly as thin, loose loops slinked around his cock. His back arched almost violently off the floor and he cracked his head pretty hard on the tiles but Cecil could scarcely notice. It was like a livewire had been attached to his dick, all sharp, buzzing electricity tearing through his body at the barest touch.

“Nnnggh,” he said through clenched teeth, and it was probably more begging than saying, but without syllables or vowels or anything to help distinguish it as English, it could just as easily be mistaken for demanding. Cecil thrust his hips weakly upwards, unable to gain any traction. The tendrils around his cock remained stubborn and limp, refusing to give him any sort of friction or relief. His pulse was bounding, his head was swimming, and he bucked pathetically, helplessly in the grip of the tentacles. “Please, please, I-I’ve been _good_ , haven’t I?” 

That could have been the right thing to say, or not. Either way, Cecil was flipped roughly onto one side and his pants were pulled the rest of the way off. His body shivered in the cool air of the booth, and his skin stung wherever it came into contact with that fetid, coiling smoke, still leaking in from the door. None of it was enough to quench or distract from the roiling heat inside him and he wriggled his body in a manner that he could only hope was tantalizing to sentient masses of tentacles and exhaust. 

Of course, it was quite hard to judge things such as intent or interest or even wretched, bone shattering loathing, which Cecil believed he could spot from a mile away – these things were difficult to ascertain when your compatriot for the moment was nothing more than fuzzy, stinging smoke and bullish, intrusive limbs. Either way, and that is to say, regardless of intent, the thing lifted his leg into the air, spreading Cecil in a manner that on any other occasion would seem vulgar. Instead of feeling shamed – certainly, that would come later – Cecil whimpered and murmured hazy platitudes. His lower back bowed and then arched, as he felt the sweet, wet touch of a tentacle upon him.

When it squirmed its way inside him Cecil almost sobbed with relief. His hands scrambled at the smooth, rubbery surface of the tendrils that bound him, his fingers and nails unable to find purchase. It worked him open slowly, so slowly, careful and meticulous, its movements alien in nature. Cecil let out a long groan. His hips stuttered as he tried to thrust himself back to meet it, but he was kept pinned precisely in place. Cecil wanted it so badly, oh, no, he _needed_ it. This creature, this _thing_ knew what he wanted so why, why wouldn’t it just-

Cecil let out a long groan, a wordless monosyllabic expression of pleading. Pleading wasn’t even the right word, was it? Was there a more fitting synonym, something that encompassed the desperate yearning in his chest, bottomless in his stomach, that writhed and hitched and robbed him of breath? Cecil couldn’t think of one, couldn’t think of anything. He could think of nothing except the way the _thing_ inside him moved, deeper and deeper and so utterly inhuman. 

And then it withdrew in a smooth, quick motion, his insides screaming in protest at the abrupt emptiness. It thrust back inside him and set its pace, unhurried and clinical. Clinical, like a scientist? His thoughts drifted endlessly towards Carlos, even as Cecil purposefully steered them away. It felt, well, _wrong_ to think of Carlos now, no matter how badly or fervently he might wish for the scientist to be here. The tentacle rammed itself into him, measured, precise, detached. No matter how Cecil whined and squirmed, thrashing in his binds, the tendrils around him held steadfast. The pace inside him never changed, brutal in its consistency.

“Nnnnngh, please – oh, _harder_ please,” dripped off his tongue, Cecil hardly even aware of his own words, his lips and tongue forming desperate words. None of it made any difference to his treatment. He was held prone and spread, unable to pull away or push back into the tendril fucking him. All he could do was accept whatever was thrust upon him, and pray for mercy.

Mercy, of course, as a vague concept and an unreachable abstraction, offered Cecil nothing in this situation. Every nerve ending his body felt alight with an untamable fire. His skin, his very being was burning alive, so unnaturally _hot_ , and the tentacle inside him was icily cold, sending shivering waves of goosebumps prickling across his flesh on every push inside him. 

Perhaps something he did – some mindless twitching of his body, some numb plea from his mouth – perhaps something made a difference. The tentacles began to drag him forcefully across the floor, down to greet the tendril slamming deep inside him. Cecil found himself crying out on every firm, body shaking shove. He felt so _full_ , like the tendril was stretching him completely. He wouldn’t be surprised if its tip came crawling up the back of his throat, wriggling out between his clenched teeth. It didn’t, of course, but the pace became faster, rougher, everything slick and hot and _cold_. 

His muscles clenched tighter and tighter, heat pooling down between his hips. Each thrust rocked his body, wound some coil within him. Cecil bit harshly into the curve of his bottom lip, his entire body trembling and on edge. Every gasp of air he dragged in became trapped in his chest. His skin tingled and prickled and rubbed smoothly across the slimy surface of the recording booth floor. 

Gods above, the thing buried so deep inside him started _writhing_ , undulating like a sea slug, or something more appealing, like a ribbon in a strong breeze. And it pressed against him, more importantly, pressed against a point _inside_ him that had Cecil’s vision whiting out, had him throwing his head back, arching his back in a painful jackknife that had some distant portion of brain wondering if he was about to pull a muscle. There was some pathetic, desperate, wailing keen in the sound booth, and Cecil couldn’t even string together enough syllables turn it into words or pleads or anything more than a base, animalistic cry for more. 

The thin tentacles around his dick started moving, swirling around the head of his cock, slurping up and down its length. After the extended teasing – torture – Cecil could only toss his head from side to side, his hips twitching, fingers curling around the tentacles still binding him. Everything rushed together, blurred. Everything constricted, squeezed, tensed, every muscle, every blood vessel. Every thought in his brain fled except - _yes, yes, oh masters, yes_ and finally, _finally_ -

Cecil moaned as the tension inside him snapped. A rushing tide of relief. The tendrils milked him thoroughly, still wrapped around his cock, still positioning his body like a doll’s, still slamming into him over and over, until he was thoroughly overstimulated and groaning for an entirely different reason, struggling with loose, sore muscles against their titanic grip. They squeezed around him, harder and harder, until he went limp in their grasp, shudders rippling through his body.

The tentacle inside him gave one last, painful surge and then withdrew in an abrupt jerk that left Cecil reeling. As if that was the cue they had all been waiting on, the other tentacles dissipated. His limbs dropped to the floor like they were made of lead. Little drops of the ooze splattered up from where his arms and legs fell into puddles. Cecil laid on his side, stunned and blinking.

He rolled onto his back, wincing at the spark of pain moving incited. The black smoke that had crept into the booth began to coalesce. It formed roughly the shape of an envelope, and then it _was_ an envelope, crisp and white and singed at its corners. Its top had been carelessly torn open. It fluttered through the air and landed in the thick slime coating his chest, sealing itself to his skin. 

Cecil gave himself a moment for his stuttering heart to kick back into its typical, regularly irregular rhythm. Outside the glass of his booth, he could see the smoke retreating like a storm rolling off into the distance. The light bulbs hung dark and limp and broken. An intern would have to fix that. Gingerly, Cecil eased himself up onto his elbows. He peeled the envelope off his chest. It had been soaked in mysterious secretions so thoroughly that it was nearly translucent, but he could see it was addressed to –

 _Oh, no_ -

Station Management. 

Well that answered that question, didn’t it? He slipped his fingers in the envelope to retrieve the missive, face scrunching as he unfurled the damp and curling paper. The contents revealed a fan letter -no, worse, a _listener suggestion_ , long and rambling but with one oft-repeated line that explained, well, most things. 

_Cecil’s sexy voice_ , the letter cooed, squealed, begged for over and over. More of Cecil’s _sexy voice_. Cecil himself could feel his eyebrow twitching in annoyance. He had to anchor himself on the sound board to get back to his seat, his tremulous legs unable to hold his weight. Sitting wasn’t the most comfortable endeavor, either. And now that the strange, falsely induced heat had evaporated like morning dew, all Cecil felt was gross and slimy and cold. He flicked his mic back on and using as few fingers as possible, hefted his headset towards one ear.

“Well, another crisis has been averted – or perhaps not averted, but weathered, as some crises must be. I was not at liberty earlier to tell you, dear listeners, what was truly happening here at the station. There _was_ something strange and unexpected occurring, and it _was_ slick and distracting – so distracting that I was forced to abandon my journalistic integrity and redirect you all to the weather report!”

Cecil sighed. “Listeners, this appreciation week is _for_ you! An expression of our, well, appreciation! And you _are_ appreciated! We want to fulfill your requests, we want to take your tips and suggestions into account, we want to improve your listening experience! But this _will not happen_ if you _address your letters_ incorrectly!”

Perhaps in emphasis, Cecil’s fist clenched around the offending, drenched letter in question. “Remember, Night Vale, every mistake you make, every minor indiscretion you commit, carries unspeakable – and, I might remind you – _completely_ avoidable consequences.

“Stay tuned next for the quiet yet vigorous sounds of lemon-scented scrubbing, and the deep, unflinching feeling that you will never truly be clean again. Good night, Night Vale. Good night.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a lateral-companion than a sequel or second chapter.

Carlos didn’t listen to the radio anymore.

…Really!

Okay, okay, correction: Carlos _shouldn’t_ listen to the radio anymore. And, he at least didn’t listen to the radio when anyone _else_ was around. 

There were quite a few factors that had led to this decision. He was the head of his scientific outcropping, for one. The leader his fellows looked to for guidance. It simply wouldn’t do for them to see him reeling at Cecil’s blithe and otherworldly announcements. 

_Packs of roaming dogs – possibly anarchist and almost certainly the product of a society that glorifies gang violence._

_Glow clouds that drop heavy animal carcasses onto the streets and then join the PTA._

_Pyramids that are nothing more than viral advertising, not that_ that _has ever worked. Oh, but that actually reminded him, he was out of cereal, wasn’t he?_

All of this and so much more, so much _worse_ came falling out of Cecil’s mouth like he was reporting on a vaguely interesting pile of rocks collected by a local fifth grader. Cecil’s mouth. The radio host greeted him with the biggest grin every time they met. Like he was excited to find Carlos still existed, thrilled that the particular array of molecules and atoms and weird in-between fluids that constituted _Carlos_ had remained in his absence. Cecil would remember himself, eventually; would cough or look away. Sometimes he would bite his lip to aid in chasing away his smile. 

And Cecil was so tongue tied around him. It was charming, or it would have been charming, except that speechlessness in Night Vale seemed to be catching and contagious, as Carlos was often struck by the same. Directly after every blurted _neat_ \- which was more often than not but not as often as one might think – Cecil’s mouth would pull down into a devastated pout. When Carlos managed to string more than five words together, which generally turned into five paragraphs of _science_ , Cecil’s mouth would hang open, just slightly, his eyes big and wide and totally enraptured and totally uncomprehending. 

Carlos sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It still hadn’t grown out, but his haircut had just been a couple weeks ago.

Which brought him to the second factor in his decision to not listen to the radio. When all was said and done, it wasn’t, strictly speaking, surprising to hear an inflammatory and incendiary editorial from a newscaster. The… topic was unusual (and made Carlos pretty embarrassed if he thought about it for too long), but people made mountains ( _they’re_ real _, Cecil_ ) out of what Carlos considered anthills at best, all the time. 

But those editorials rarely prompted full blown vigilante justice. Or at least, those editorials usually took longer before their words could seep into a population and cause it to explode outwards in violence. It had taken Cecil, like, twenty minutes, tops, to convince a town to turn on one of its own. Even a few of his small band of scientists had been swept into the sudden, violent tide. Over a haircut! When they’d gotten back, Carlos had questioned them thoroughly, and scientifically, and very calmly, using _very_ scientific methods. He had _not_ grabbed at the unevenly shorn locks of his hair in an outward display of unmanageable stress and confusion.

The shared look they had pinned him with meant something like _what the hell are you talking about?_ And then they had said, “What the hell are you talking about?” 

So, that was a little, uh.

It was-

It was definitely not good. 

A later, admittedly calmer and more thorough examination of the three wayward scientists hadn’t revealed any lasting damage or abnormalities. No busted or bleeding eardrums, no apparent trigger words (they tried _barber_ and _Telly_ and _hair cut_ and, to Carlos’ everlasting chagrin, _Perfect Carlos_ ) – all of which revealed nothing worse than a splitting headache and an overwhelming desire to get a slice at Big Rico’s. Oh, and Mikaela got a sunburn, which she used to request sick leave for the rest of the week. Carlos couldn’t fault her there.

Overall, they had been about as close as any of them felt to _normal_ here in Night Vale.

“… _one_ of you out there has been using _writing utensils_ …” the radio said, as if in dramatic emphasis of his point. Well, technically the radio did not say this, Cecil said it. In his deep and resonant voice, tone ominous and dire, dropping into a lower register as he drawled out the words _writing utensils_ , unfurling and sinister. It drew a small shudder down his spine, his flesh pinching up into pricks of gooseflesh, and somehow, Carlos both coveted and dreaded being the target of that sentence.

Uh, that is to say, Scientifically Speaking, Cecil was a talented orator. 

And used this talent for really terrible things. Carlos frowned at his dashboard, the dated knobs and tick-marked horizontal-line display of the radio, feeling the spark of Cecil’s words trying to catch in his brain. The dried out hay stack of paranoia, ready and eager to distrust those around him, particularly, as Cecil pointed out, those who knew his most _incriminating secrets_. 

_Turn on them now_ , Cecil didn’t have to say, _before they turn on you._

His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles going pallid where the dark skin of his hands was a thin stretch over the bulging ridges of his joints. With the slippery ease of oil spilling across water’s surface, Cecil changed direction, and led them directly to Factor Three of Carlos’ Decision to Listen to the Radio Never, or Okay, Maybe Sometimes but Only Privately. Whichever. 

“Just the other day, I was talking to Carlos - _perfect_ Carlos - our resident scientist whose hair, I must say, is growing back _quite_ nicely.”

 _Perfect Carlos_ , said with the distinct impression that Cecil was swooning, stricken with love, and Carlos shifted in his seat, embarrassed even when alone. Embarrassing, and yet, enjoyable, in a way that somehow made Carlos feel distinctly that he was taking advantage of Cecil. The scientist couldn’t explain it, to himself or to anyone else, except that maybe it was some undefined sense of guilt. He knew he wasn’t perfect, after all; whoever Cecil thought he was, whoever it was Cecil was truly gushing about on the air waves, it wasn’t Carlos. To take enjoyment in his proclamations, then, was wrong.

Now, whether this wrongness was accepted by his body or not, well, he couldn’t control that. The hot curl of warmth in his chest, in his stomach, the goofy grin that plastered itself to his face. The fluttering, almost giddy feeling- 

“I mean, it’s kind of at that in-between stage, where you _know_ someone has gotten a haircut, and it’s _sort of_ growing out, but you can tell they don’t really know how to style it yet – Listeners, I’m not usually one for the scruffy, unkempt look, but Carlos the scientist _wears it well_!”

Uh, was his hair that bad? Cecil had said it was growing out, right? Carlos fiddled unconsciously, or perhaps self-consciously with the soft, curling ends of his hair, wondering how he could fix it. Since the red light he’d been sitting at for the past few minutes wasn’t showing signs of changing anytime soon, Carlos yanked the rearview mirror out of place, startling at the glimpse of _something_ , rotting and ghastly in his backseat, but focusing mostly on examining himself, wondering if there was something he should be doing differently with his hair.

He ran a hand through it. He shook out the front, tried out smoothing down the sides. It always seemed to bounce back to the same configuration, dark and messy. _Unkempt._ Maybe he should slick it back? The idea of another hair cut – just a trim this time! – flitted uselessly through his mind, and Carlos was almost offended the thought had existed in the first place. There was no way, after the Telly Incident, that he was going to get his hair cut. 

At least, not before he had a serious conversation with Cecil. So, probably never. 

The loud, ear-piercing shriek of a diving bird of prey broke him out of his thoughts. The light had turned green, and an SSP officer cleverly disguised as a _Slow Children: Are the First to Go_ sign was shaking their balaclava-clad head at him, holding a megaphone in one spray painted hand. The officer lifted the megaphone to their mouth again, and the shriek erupted from its cone shaped end once more, prompting Carlos to wince and clap his hands over his ears.

“All right, all right, I’m going!” he replied. 

He worked his jaw up and down, trying to dislodge the stubborn ringing the officer’s _polite_ notice had brought about in his ears. His actions weren’t particularly effective. He turned up the radio instead, hoping he could at least drown out the high, sharply-pitched whine that was almost certainly a sign of late-in-life tinnitus. 

“…is happening currently in the station,” Cecil was saying. Carlos frowned, curious. There was a thick, heavy pause on the radio, and then a quiet intake of breath. “N-Noooope. Nothing like that at all.”

Huh. That was weird. 

It was probably nothing. 

Well, no, it was probably something, but it was probably something Cecil could handle. Whatever it was.

“In actual news, Old Woman Josie reports that the inhumanly tall, winged creatures who are definitely _not_ angels, and who all go by the name _Erika_ , have been having some, uh-” Now _that_ was unusual. Cecil stalled for words so infrequently (on air, at least) that any slip up counted as statistically significant. “Sooooome _issues_ with the water heater. She didn’t expand, or tell us _why_ she thought this was news worthy, but, there you go!

“Personally, I don’t see why she _needs_ hot water,” Cecil continued, and now Carlos was really paying attention, because his voice had lost its normal composure. Strained and tight, like Cecil was holding himself back from something. He was still mulling this over when a low groan came out over the radio, the sound shooting through his body like an electrical current, heading straight down to his-

_Oh boy._

Distraction, he needed a distraction _now_. What had Cecil been reporting on? Old Woman Josie’s angels? No, something to do with her water heater. But it would give him an excuse to go over there, and maybe sneak a closer peak at her angels anyway. Focus on the science, not on the breathy – was he _panting_ now, Jesus, Cecil – voice that delivered the news. He had a goal, he had an idea of what was going on in town; the reason he listened to Cecil’s show, as Carlos told himself. He could – he _should_ – just turn the radio off right now-

“Oh, _yes_ , do keep going,” Cecil purred, an expression Carlos had never heard encapsulated so fully, and it was followed up by a wet, choked gasp. Yeah, it would probably be for the best to keep this on. “With the, uh, news! Of course. The news.” How Cecil made that phrase sound so _dirty_ , it should have been illegal. 

Wait, was it illegal? Did this count as some sort of public indecency? 

Cecil continued on with his report, voice deep and rough and making it very difficult to concentrate properly on the content of his speech. He was talking about something, and Carlos, through the application of logic and critical thinking, could conclude for himself that that something was, well, somewhere. Existing? He was thankful there weren’t many other drivers out on the road. The rest of Night Vale was probably busy listening to Cecil’s broadcast as well.

Carlos dug his nails into the faux-leather finish of his steering wheel, gritting his teeth. There was a sharp, angry thrashing in the pit of his stomach that caused Carlos a brief moment of panic before he recognized it for an emotion and not, say, a grotesquely huge parasite about to erupt through his skin and viscera. Though even that might be preferable to the admission that he was feeling a bit possessive of the radio host currently giving a breathless report concerning the secret police dropping canisters of tear gas onto reporters. Just the thought of that, and its possible ramifications – freedom of press, at the least! – should have doused his arousal, but to his shame, it really didn’t.

Well, it did a little, but then his mind helpfully crafted a scenario in which _he_ was in the booth with Cecil, biting and suckling at the other’s smooth flesh, licking long, slow stripes over heated skin while Cecil trembled above him, fingers tangled in the _perfect_ hair he so loved to extrapolate upon and body squirming, pinioned in place by Carlos’ hands on his hips while Cecil forced himself to concentrate, to finish the news segment and get to the weather, wherein he would-

No, no, that wasn’t helping things, thanks though. 

One his hands had drifted down to his lap, palming at himself through the rough denim of his jeans. It was testament to how badly Carlos was affected that he allowed himself a moment, enjoying the little tingles of electricity flaring through his body, rolling his hips against his own hand. And god, Cecil was not _helping_ matters, releasing a noise on air that was nothing but tortured consonants and then a high-pitched, thready whine that had Carlos longing to be in that sound booth with the radio host, so that he could give Cecil what he so desperately needed.

Not, uh, not that he _knew_ what Cecil needed. Though with the way the radio host said his name, Carlos thought he had a pretty good idea of how he could assist Cecil. 

“…About the station? About how it was _definitely not_ the site of strange, or unexpected, o-or slick and, uh, _distracting_ events?” Cecil was saying. Carlos had managed to wrest back control of his hands and had them both firmly planted on the steering wheel once more. The few coherent thoughts he had were dedicated to wondering if he had accidentally turned onto one of the spatial-loop streets again, because he was pretty sure he should have reached the used car lot by now. “Well, that was-”

Cecil cut out again- no, Cecil was cut _off_ again. Carlos grit his teeth so hard he could hear the tension sizzling in his ears and above that white noise sound was nothing but Cecil’s muffled groaning, and slick, wet sounds, like flesh sliding on flesh, little strangled gulps set to an uneven, irregular beat, like something was hitting the back of Cecil’s throat repeatedly and wow, Carlos was going to crash his damn car if this kept going. In the back of his mind, it occurred to him that he should probably be worried about what was happening at the radio station. 

There was a wet pop and then coughing, and then ragged breathing. His mind, unbidden, provided him a wonderful image of Cecil on his knees, Carlos’ hand buried in his hair and dragging him off his aching cock. _Pop_ , just like that, when those talented lips slipped off the head of his dick. 

“Uhhh… Where was I?” Cecil sounded utterly disoriented, dreamy and languid even as his voice came out thick, gravelly like the deep, sonorous sliding of tectonic plates. “Oh! Yes! The… station. Everything is great, here! Here, at the station. Yup.” Okay, Cecil didn’t sound believable there _at all_. But he had interns, right? Night Vale wouldn’t actually let something bad happen to their beloved radio host. 

Right? 

Carlos drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He pulled his car over, just to get a better idea of where he even was, not to prepare to turn around and head to the radio station. If something _was_ happening there, maybe it would turn out to be scientifically interesting. Definitely worth looking into. The angels could wait, Carlos reasoned. And for how helpful they seemed to be around Old Woman Josie’s house, they could be considered withholding when it came to indulging scientific curiosity. 

“…everyone’s favorite scientist, Carlos! Isn’t that… something!” Carlos sucked in a sharp, trembling breath, because whatever he had expected out of today, it had definitely not been Cecil saying his name like _that_ , his voice so dark and rough. Like Cecil was right there with him, was seconds away from pouncing on him with predatory intent. “He’s heading over there right now, to do some sort of _science,_ I would imagine! And all without the use of _writing utensils, **Steve Carlsburg**_.”

It was absolutely a problem when even Cecil’s aggressive, Steve-Carlsburg-induced annoyance did little to dampen Carlos’ arousal. Though he wasn’t super keen on hearing Cecil say anyone else’s name at this precise moment. And then Cecil just sighed, sweet and wistful.

“Apparently, Old Woman Josie – or perhaps her tall friends, who are totally not angels, you guys – or perhaps just her faulty water heater, have become the subject of Carlos’ _scientific inquiry_.” There it was again, Cecil’s voice dipping into those lower registers, the words spilling from his lips like thick black ink. It sent a shudder down Carlos’ spine. 

“Can you even imagine?” Cecil was breathless. 

“Being the subject of such _focused, intense_ scrutiny?” Oh. Yes, Carlos could suddenly imagine that. Imagine Cecil- 

“Helping out both _science_ as an over-arching ideal, _and_ a beloved member of our small community?” That, somehow, finally, was the last straw, Cecil saying it like he was in process of dragging Carlos down a dark hall, like they were already tumbling into sheets together, like Cecil was lying spread in wait and ready for Carlos to pull him to pieces. 

Carlos fumbled with his belt and unbuttoned his jeans, yanking himself out with almost too much force and trembling as his fevered skin was exposed to the artificially cooled air of his car. His car, god, he was in his car, but he really couldn’t care. He fisted himself, hips bucking, feet scrambling to plant anywhere on the flooring that wouldn’t result in the engine revving to life. The last sane part of his mind was reminding him that he _really_ shouldn’t be doing this - the consequences for law-breaking in Night Vale were often vaguely sinister or sinisterly specific, and while he didn’t remember which one Public Indecency fell under, inviting municipal punishment felt like a Bad Idea. A Bad Idea that didn’t seem to have any bearing on his actual decision-making process. 

There was no room for anything in his body but bright, flaring need. It was a heat that sparked along every inch of nerve, root and ending alike. A heat that made his toes curl and his chest ache, and it pooled low in his gut while his heart beat became rapid and erratic. And all he could hear was _Cecil_ , his quiet panting and bitten back whines, voice rumbling and grating and deep. Cecil, saying his name. _Carlos,_ he would say, sighing and longing and full of too much, so many emotions Carlos couldn’t name them all, _oh, perfect, yes_ -

And as _perfect_ as the image was, of Cecil lost in pleasure beneath him, a pliant and eager thing, an inscrutable piece of Night Vale itself subject to rigorous _scientific inquiry_ as Cecil would say. As wonderful as all that undeniably was, Carlos’ body jerked and stuttered and he came into his own palm thinking of Cecil on any other day. His face lighting up – sometimes literally – at the sight of Carlos, how Cecil acted like nothing of note existed outside of the space Carlos immediately occupied. How Cecil had once spent literal hours listening to Carlos ramble about science and though Carlos would eat his own shoe if Cecil had retained more than a sentence’s worth of information from it, the radio host’s attention had never drifted, his eyes never glazed over; Cecil had never tuned out the boring, stuttering scientist who got too enthusiastic about possibly-non-existent earthquakes.

Hell, Carlos even thought of that annoying way Cecil had of condescending to him, when something ridiculous and outrageous and against all laws of reason and science happened. When something that was just so completely _Night Vale_ happened, but _Carlos_ was the outlandish one, not this insane town.

Most of all, though, he just thought of _Cecil_ , strange and sweet and intimidating and utterly smitten. Of the terror of _instantly_ and how the disappointment he’d expected to follow such a proclamation had never come. 

The weather report was drawing to a close as Carlos slumped bonelessly in his seat. When his heart stopped thudding so loudly in his ears and his breathing rate had returned to its typical 12 breaths a minute, Carlos began to move again. Cecil came back on, sounding for all the world like the past 30 minutes of broadcast hadn’t occurred. (Well, except for him referencing it? Carlos guessed?) He still wasn’t sure what was going on, but Cecil sounded like himself again, if vaguely annoyed and disappointed.

“Remember, Night Vale, every mistake you make, every minor indiscretion you commit, carries unspeakable – and, I might remind you – _completely_ avoidable consequences.” Carlos shuddered, unpleasantly this time. “Stay tuned next for the quiet, vigorous sounds of lemon-scented scrubbing, and the deep, unflinching feeling that you will never truly be clean again.”

For once, as Carlos stared at his white-splattered hand, he thought he knew _exactly_ what Cecil meant.

“Good night, Night Vale. Good night.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a prompt fill for the oooold, old old kink meme. This prompt:  
>  _Station Management read the letters._
> 
>  
> 
> _They all demanded more of Cecils 'sexy voice'._
> 
>  
> 
> _Of course, they need to give a little so people will stop annoying them and interrupting their many important things. So they figure out a way to make Cecils voice sexier; fill it with actual lust._
> 
>  
> 
> _Basically I want Station Management sending tentacles under the door (or latching them to Cecils back, putting them under his desk/on his chair, whatever makes sense to you) and having them molest/slowly fuck Cecil during the broadcast._
> 
>  
> 
> _Dub-con or non-con or even full-con are all acceptable._


End file.
